


These Mortal Moments

by Inky_Pens



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: POV Cardan Greenbriar, POV Jude Duarte
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-11-23 14:50:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18153284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inky_Pens/pseuds/Inky_Pens
Summary: A collection of one-shots, centric to Jude and Cardan, depicting the more human moments between the two. POVs include Cardan, Jude, and third person. Chapters range from fluff to angst, sexual tension and romantic tension are fulfilled and unfulfilled, depending on the chapter.Reader suggestions for moments you would like to see written are welcomed.





	1. In Sickness and in Health

“Fuck _off_ , Cardan!” I shout towards the locked door of the bath. It’s the only place for refuge right now, what with Cardan incessantly hovering over me for two days.

In the hot bath, herbs and oil swirl with purple nibs of lavender. I reach for my mint-and-lemon tea, sipping it with a wince every time it hits the back of my throat. I’m on my third day of illness, a common cold by mortal standards but here in Faerie, where moral illnesses do not penetrate this realm, it feels as though I’m dying. In my congested haze, I worry that I may very well die from this. Not by a sharp blade of an enemy or an angry mob revolting on the palace, but a trivial cold. The thought pisses me off. 

It is only thanks to Vivi that I am this way to begin with. I visit her once a month when I can, and this last visit only a week ago was spent taking Oak to a germy, slimy children’s museum so Vivi could spend “quality time” with Heather, which I took to mean a salacious afternoon too inappropriate for a child’s ears. Oak had the time of his life; I loved seeing him bouncy and so very… human, for once. This was always the other side of the coin when we sent him to live with Vivienne. Keep him safe from the dangers of Elfhame during this unstable time and show him the humanity that exists outside of Faerie. The boundless love that permeates across the human race. The excitement, the history, the fear of trying something new that, unlike in Faerie, probably won’t kill him. The differences among our kind, and the beauty in those differences. He has been given an opportunity to experience a world that will teach him what trust and loyalty means when it is granted without a dagger to his back. 

But I still wish I would have forced Vivi to get a hotel room so I wouldn’t be in this mess.

Cardan enters the room without knocking or preamble, and I am too tired to cover myself. It is nothing he has not already seen and explored anyway. We have been intimate since I returned from exile hand-in-hand with him. 

“ _It was for you, Jude. You were so…broken, when Orlagh returned you. Something the Roach said to you when you came back stayed with me: that you came out tougher than you went in. And I already thought you braver than anyone I had ever known. I cannot imagine what you endured down there, and you will not tell me, so I can only understand it to have been horrible. I did not want you to suffer any more on behalf of Faerie. I knew I had to give you a break that you would not take willingly. I needed to set other plans in motion to establish the strength and authority that all Elfhame thought me lacking, and I could not do that with you by my side. As much as I wanted you by my side. I bound you to me as my wife and Queen, and when your crown was ready, I brought you back, so you may lay rightful claim to it.”_  

His eyes darken when he sees the earth-kissed water rippling over me. Instinctively, my skin pebbles in goosebumps at his voyeurism.  I express an exhale in an attempt to sigh my annoyance, but the movement triggers a spasm that feels like a thousand tiny knives slicing the inside of my throat. I wince and whimper, not even caring if Cardan hears it. He takes two steps towards the massive clawfoot soaking tub, and I remember myself and his unwanted presence.

“Can I not have peace in my own bath?” 

“Our bath,” he corrects softly, distressed by my unworldly illness. This isn’t a cut to my shin or blisters caused by touching poisonous fruit. He cannot fix this with magic.

Ours. He has been on this mission for weeks. I moved into his bedchambers last week after he would not let up about it. At first, he was manipulative. ‘What will the Folk think if my wife and the Queen lived separately from her husband?’ turned into ‘Then I suppose I have no choice but to bring in consorts to keep my bed warm.’ When those didn’t work, he became outright demanding. He ordered Tatterfell to pack my belongings and move them into his room. I was furious with them both, though I knew my longtime caretaker could not deny the High King. Finally, his appeal was earnest. He came to my apartment one night and said he did not care where I slept, so long as he could sleep beside me. He said that he missed me, that he wanted me in his sight to ensure I would not disappear from it again. It was these words that had me giving in, and I willingly forsake the independence that I had only just recently established after moving out of Madoc’s estate. I think I would have done it eventually just to piss off Nicasia, however.

“My apartment,” I rebut tiredly.

“My palace,” he volleys.

Before I catch my words, they are regrettably out of my mouth. “ _Our_ palace.” 

He grins then, having won a round I did not realize I was playing.

My head sinks back to the edge of the tub, the gentle porcelain curve supporting my neck as my body goes limp from aches and exhaustion beneath the water. I am in too much pain for our usual banter. Cardan is better at it than me on a good day, and he would eviscerate me with acerbic wit if I attempted it now. So instead, I will do the thing he loathed most. I will ignore him.

“I can have Tatterfell bring you fresh tea. Yours looks to have gone cold.”

Silence and stone-faced. I don’t even allow the muscle in my jaw to twitch in my annoyance.

“Or perhaps you are hungry. What would you like? Some cheese and bread? Honey cakes? I can have the kitchen prepare the leek soup you enjoyed last week.” 

In my head, I run through my morning sword warm-up routine, wondering where I can add in more practice for hand-to-hand combat. I have been meaning to get better at that. My eyes close to further block out Cardan, and I pretend I am standing in front of my full-length mirror, throwing elbows against an invisible assailant-- 

“Jude?”

I need more footwork, that’s it. More kicks—higher, sweeping, kneeing. The last partner I trained with was the Ghost, and ever since then, I have been hesitant to take on a new partner in fear of them studying me, learning how I move, and using that against me when they inevitably betray me.

When I awake, I am lying on my stomach in the High King’s luxurious bed. Well, our bed, technically. I blink, rubbing my eyes against the back of my hand, blinking against the lantern Cardan is holding close to my face.

“Holy shit,” I grumble, burying my face into the pillow to ward off the bright illumination. I free my hand underneath my body to bat away the offensive Cardan and his lamp.

“Oh thank the gods,” he mumbles, clearly relieved. “You sounded so terrible. Like a giant beast running through a forest about to meet its death. I thought maybe you could not breathe. You were shuddering every time a whistle of air made it into your lungs, and I thought… It sounded as though you were dying. Truly.”

“How did I get here?” I ask him. I notice my voice is weak and gravelly, but I cannot push out sound any louder. I tentatively lift my head from my pillow and watch him search my face with clear concern.

“You fell asleep in the bath—”

“I was ignoring you.”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a shadow of a wry smile. “Yes, well, somewhere in the midst of your silent treatment, you fell asleep. I carried you to bed, where you have slept for the whole of the day and much of this evening. Jude, have you ever had this before?”

I shake my head, not remembering the last time I was so ill. “Wait, yes. When I was a child. Five or six, I think. Those years run together.”

Cardan nods solemnly, as if he understands, but of course, he doesn’t. “Anyway, I was feverish and coughing so much I popped blood vessels on my cheeks. I lost my voice for a couple of days. My mom made me drink this disgusting red cherry syrup. Taryn was sick, too, and the medicine was her favorite part. I don’t recall the name, but I was better in a few days.”

“I will send someone to the mortal world to retrieve it.” I am shocked by the kindness and tenderness that coats the softness of his voice. It wraps around me, soothing the throbbing in my head, the knives in my throat, the ache in my limbs. I have this sudden want for him to hold me, but I am too unsure to ask. What if he finds me disgusting right now? My hair is a nest of disarray, my body is too warm to be comfortable, my eyes water with tears every time I clear my throat or attempt to swallow. By all accounts, I feel gross and look the same. I want to cry, and so I do, if nothing more than because I am so miserable. But of course, there is more to it. I cry because I want to be held and comforted, and I want Cardan to _want_ to do that for me, and I am too scared he would reject the notion entirely. Pretty words are pretty, but his behavior—nor mine for that matter—doesn’t often match the beauty.

The tears are silent, but unfortunately, the sniffles are not. I tuck my face back into my pillow and shake some sense into me, willing myself to stop this pathetic display and tough it out. People in the mortal world get sick all the time. I am not five years old with my stuffed animals clutched to my chest and my mother stroking my hair and humming no-named songs to me. No matter how much I wish I could be. 

Cardan does a very un-Cardan thing and refrains from asking a dozen questions about my current state. Without telling him, it is as if he knows what I need, even though I know he hasn’t a clue what to do in this situation. I wonder if that terrifies him as much as he has indicated in his concern today.

Instead, he leaves my side for just a moment and returns with a small bowl and cloth. He climbs into the bed behind me and easily coaxes my head onto his lap. There, he runs his fingers through my hair, along the human curve of my ear with unmistakable reverence, pulling my thick tresses off of my neck and replacing it with the cool, damp cloth. He blows gently on the moisture, which helps to relieve the discomfort of a fever and calm me. He does this over and over. To my forehead, my cheeks, my neck. He sits quietly and patiently as my eyes flutter closed to his ministrations. I whisper a quiet “thank you”, the rise and fall of my chest becoming steady and lulling me back into a deep sleep.

It is before I take the final plunge into slumber that I hear him whisper back, “Always, my love.”


	2. Exit Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavily inspired by the Placebo song by the same name. I essentially wrote this while listening to it. 
> 
> Next chapter, "Drinking Games", up on Friday.

 

“Where were you tonight?”

"Holy shit, you scared me." Her breath leaves her body in such a rush that she must grip the edge of the table in the entryway. She miraculously finds the pull for the lamp without breaking it. She does not see him sitting opposite of her, glaring at her with such intensity that he may very well be cursing her with his gaze alone. Her eyes adjust to the dim light to find him in her plush armchair adjacent to a corner of bookshelves. On the edge of the chair lies his book, the one she stole almost a year ago, the one he wordlessly let her keep on her shelves in her room. If she didn’t know better, she would say he’s only just casually reclining, readying himself for bed. A heavy crystal tumbler rests upright on the wooden side table. She takes a moment to look at it, if nothing else to avoid the suffocating prolonged eye contact with him. It looks like he’s long-since polished off whatever rich mahogany contents it might have held all throughout the night. He could have been waiting up for her, reading a book to pass the time, worried about the late hour, concerned for her safety, eager to see her safe and sound and _home_. But Jude does know better. Behind the white-hot stare is a frigid temperament that could and may destroy her sooner yet.

So she plays for nonchalance. It is her quickest defense mechanism. She has done it so much lately that it slips on her like the finest silk in all of Faerie—silks that she herself owns now as Queen of Elfhame.

 “I was out training,” she lies easily. “Needed to run through some solo exercises.”

“You didn’t take your guards,” he smoothly accuses. His tone is low and perceptibly dangerous. Her responding inhale is shaky, but she hides it well.

“No, that would defeat the point of ‘solo’ now wouldn’t it?” She softens just an inch, hoping it appeals to him if he’s drunk enough. “Come on, you know I do not enjoy an audience during trainings.” Her feigned smile to him is soft, petitioning him to drop this line of questioning as it will lead them nowhere good. They both know it won’t. If she can sweeten the lie, he might think it honey instead of tar.

He throws the tumbler against the wall so suddenly that the deafening splinter of crystal shards rings in her ear, though to her credit, she remains unmoved and upright. Inside, her stomach does somersaults, twisting and tumbling into a pit of nausea that settles deep in her bones and has done for two months since she returned. It is with great effort that she makes herself sound bored.

“Tatterfell will be furious with you,” she shakes her head.

“I could give a fuck.” His approach towards her is slow and sure, like the lion who already knows the injured lamb is easy prey. He appraises her with a mix of fury and disgust. He can smell him on her. She knows it. She intended for it.

“Where was it this time?”

She knows better than to answer him. He fixates on the details.

His hands roam her body, cupping and kneading her supple curves from breasts to buttocks. Standing behind her now, he presses his groin into her backside. An illicit whisper tickles her ear. “Tell me, my sweet Queen, have you given him this yet?”

The gulp threatens to choke her. She hates herself for growing hot between her thighs. “Cardan—”

“Quiet!” he snaps. “Do not poison my name on your tongue when his lay on it all night.”

Jude only whimpers, and the self-hatred blooms into her throat along with it.

She does hate what she is doing, and whom she is doing it with, but Cardan sent her away and never came back for her. Cardan privately named her Queen and publicly ridiculed her with the title. She fought her way back into Elhame and forced him to accept the bed he made, even if she refused to lie in it.

And yet, she still dreamed of him. She still shared lingering moments where he looked at her as if he could unravel every lie she ever told and find the scared 7-year-old orphan underneath. There were seconds where she could convince herself they were meant for one another. It was undeniable he wanted her, and she, him. His charming words were sparks that made her feel alive. Jude welcomed his teasing, craved it more than anything else in fact, but always, always rejected his reconciliation.

“Did he make you come?” her whispers over her lips and into her mouth. She is entranced, unable to move or breathe or speak. It is as if she is glamoured, so she pinches herself subtly to prove she is not. He has never so brazenly alluded to knowing what she would sneak out to do every now and then.

“Enough!” Jude takes a large step back and the spell breaks over them. She is panting, clutching the foyer table and shaking the sense back into her. For all the want and lust he had simmering in his dark eyes, now was nothing but hatred. Beneath hatred was self-loathing and pain; that much she understood very well.

Cardan’s sharp footsteps rattle her bones as he thankfully heads towards the door of her bedchamber that unfairly shares a wall with his. They may not inhabit the same room, nor sleep in the same bed, but he would not allow her any farther than the room next door.

“If I forbid you to see him?”

“Then I will take him to bed in this very room.”

“And if I execute him for treason?”

This is where Jude reveals how cruel and cold she has become in her exile and return. Her only answer is a shrug of indifference. They both know she means it. Cardan, for one, is internally startled by what her time in the mortal world did to her. How the rage simmered beneath the surface, and her revenge was seeking refuge in another’s body.

“And what of your sister? If I should humiliate her in front of all of the Court, for being complicit in her husband’s betrayal? If I should smear her name and social standing, shun her from all the luxuries she garnered when she turned against you?”

My dagger is at his throat and I am once again standing too close, however, I will not back down. “If you so much as breathe her name, I will carve your lungs from your body so you may breathe no more. I _made_ you, King. Do not test my will to unmake you.”

Cardan does not flinch. When he speaks to her this time, it is an earnest appeal to her to see the truth. To stop hurting herself to hurt him. To let him apologize to her in the way he knew how. “He does not want you the way I want you. He does not dream of you and wake up with your name on his lips, like I do. He does not drink himself into a stupor waiting for you to return to him. Locke does not love you, Jude.”

Gone is the fury. Gone is perpetual humiliation that pinks her cheeks. Gone is the bitterness that stole her kindness. Gone is the chill that lives in her bones to force the warmth of mortal weakness into submission. Husband and wife stand inches apart and worlds away. She knows what to say to him. She knows this changes nothing.

“But neither do you, Cardan.”


	3. Drinking Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick thank you for all the welcoming feedback on this series. I'm glad you all seem to be enjoying the different takes on Jude & Cardan. For heavier, continuous angst--a new chapter of The Missing Queen will be up on Monday. The next installment in this series will be up early next week--someone's birthday celebration (fluff) or an exploration of sacrifice (angst). See you next week!

“How many people have you kissed?”

“Really?” she answers, her eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “That’s your first question? What a waste of a Truth.”

She is stalling. It must be many. “Just answer the question,” I grit out, but my mask is one of indifference. As if I don’t care how many people were granted access to her body in the ways I have been.

We only just started playing this game, but I am on the edge of drunk and she is only a few steps ahead of me and three goblets behind. I think she was drunk in her first sip. Her eyes are bright and her cheeks are flushed. Her mouth curves with smiles and frowns depending on whatever is going on in that pretty head of hers. That is how this game began, with me wanting to know what she thinks and how she behaves when the serious mask of seneschal is removed. 

She rolls her eyes, but she agreed to unfettered honesty when she suggested this game. “Two.” Okay, not bad. It is what I assumed: Locke and me. I internally sigh in relief. Suddenly, her eyes go wide as saucers, as if remembering something shocking and unpleasant. “Three.”

Who’s the third?! Was it Nicasia? Did she kiss Jude out of revenge, or maybe to find out why her two ex-lovers find the mortal girl so appealing? I must know. “Who’s the third?” I demand.

I expect her to curse me off, tell me it is none of my business. But embarrassment and shame colors her face at the same time her mouth sets into a stubborn line of refusal.

“You get one question per turn, King.”

I wave her along with my hand, eager for her turn to be over so I can resume mine.

“Truth or dare?” She asks. We both gulp from our respective goblets at once.

“Dare.”

“I dare you to kindly request honey cakes from your servant, then dismiss her for the evening—again, kindly.”

“You think I cannot be kind?” 

“No, I don’t,” she shakes her head. “I think you can be charming to manipulate others to your advantage.”

I splay my hand across my chest in mock offense. “Have I not been the utmost kind to you?

“You exiled me,” she deadpans.

“I protected you,” I argue. We have been through this before; it never turns out in my favor. 

“You laughed when I tripped on the dais yesterday morning.”

“You are mistaken. I had porridge stuck in my throat.” 

“You asked what bird lived in my hair only mere hours ago.”

“Then Tatterfell is to blame for putting such inane ornaments in the plaited crown she crafted—which of course, she would not need to do if you would only wear the crown I had made for you.” 

“It is heavy and cumbersome to wear for the sake of wearing it. I’ve told you this. Now stop delaying and go be a nice little king.”

I growl and grumble, but I push myself off the plush rug and onto my bare feet. I pluck out a delicate branch of baby’s breath from Jude’s messy “crown” and drop it into her lap, secretly smiling at her chuckle. It is a rare treat to hear it, so I privately dazzle in the musicality of it.

“Wait—what is her name?” I inquire, because of course Jude knows.

I can tell she is unimpressed by my not knowing.

“Hemalot. Her name is Hemalot.”

I open the door from my bed chamber and into my library where the imp is slouched over due to an unnatural curvature of her spine. She busies herself tidying books that needn’t be tidied. 

I quietly clear my throat so as to get her attention without startling her. She is startled by my unnatural geniality anyway. “Hemalot? May I request you to please bring the Queen and I a few cakes with honey and milk, if that is not too much trouble?”

I watch her eyes widen and her head nod frantically. She bows low and keeps her voice lower. “Yes, Your Majesty.” 

I somehow manage to find a way to lay the sweetness on thickly without seeming threatening in the way someone like Orlagh might sound. “I very much appreciate it, Hemalot. And once you have returned, please do take the rest of the evening off. You may return tomorrow around midday, in time for lunch, please. The Queen and I can fend for ourselves until then.”

Her jaw drops into an ‘o’ of shock. Never have I said more than a few words to her and never have they been particularly kind. In fact, it is not something I ever considered, but I think of Tatterfell’s loyalty to Jude and how maternal she can be. Tatterfell still scolds her, not caring that Jude is the Queen of Elfhame. She will not tell me when Jude has been crying and why, though she casts angry glares at me to let me know it is my fault. Jude has tried pardoning Tatterfell a few times before, but Tatterfell refuses to accept the freedom and remains the Queen’s only personal staff. I wonder if I should adopt a more amenable approach with my own close staff to garner that kind of genuine support and loyalty.

I am snapped back to the present moment with Hemalot smiling nervously and awkwardly at me, thanking me abundantly with a slew of “most kind” and “most generous” compliments. My return smile is not quite as comfortable as it maybe should be, but I do it nonetheless and turn on my heel with a smug grin towards Jude. 

“Truth or dare?” I ask her before she comes back with a smart-ass reply. _Pick truth, pick truth, pick—_

“Dare.”

I narrow my eyes at her, wondering if she is doing this intentionally to avoid further interrogations. 

“Okay…” I mull the choices over thoughtfully. “Using only your tongue, touch the part of me you find most appealing.”

The exhale parts her lips in a puff. If she is embarrassed, I cannot tell. Her cheeks are so rosy from the wine. She finishes her goblet and does something the surprises me the most: she gets on her hands and knees and crawls towards me. If I was not already sat on the floor, one leg bent and my arm resting my knee, near-empty goblet teetering from my fingers, I would have fallen to my knees then and there. Does she really have no idea how incredibly appealing she is?

She meets my gaze when she licks her lips, but my eyes quickly dart to where tongue runs along the edge of her teeth. I gulp. I try not to gasp. 

Her face is close to mine. Too close. I want to grab her head and mash her lips to mine, but the anticipation of her dare is too exhilarating. Her nose runs along the shell of my left ear, up to the pointed tip where she nuzzles with what seems like affection. She plants tiny whispers of kisses along my jaw, ghosts her lips down my neck, and her gaze settles on my lap. I dare not move, but I can feel the twitch elsewhere. Judging by the soft pants leaving Jude’s mouth, and the way she bites her lip, I suspect she may have seen it as well.

Before I can unman myself in front of her, she thankfully pulls herself away just enough to allow me to regain my wits about me. She pulls the goblet from my hand, downs the rest of it, and grabs my hand between two of hers. One by one, she places each of my fingers in her mouth, scraping each digit with her teeth before running the tip across her puckered lips. I have no earthly idea how I notice this, but I realize she has yet to fulfill her dare. She is only just teasing me, the vixen.

Finally, her eyes land on mine again, and her mouth is millimeters away. Slowly, erotically, she rubs her lips against mine, brushing them like a pixie’s feather-light wings strokes the air. When the tip of her tongue traces the outline of my bottom lip, I just about implode. She tastes like tart cherries and honeysuckle nectar. She is intoxicated and intoxicating. I am drunk enough to kiss her with wild abandon. To be honest, after her little display, I would have ravaged her without the addition of wine-fueled hunger.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur, the cakes from Hemalot grow stale just outside the door, our game ending the moment her lips touched mine. Her head is on my chest and my fingers stroke her hair absently while a thought I should have long forgotten niggles away in the dark corners of my mind. I have no right to be upset with her for whatever she has done with whomever. It is certainly not my place, and I am no one to lecture about trysts.

“Jude?” I call her name so softly that I hope she may not hear me if she is in slumber. Coward. Unfortunately and thankfully, she does hear me.

“Hmm?”

“Truth or dare?”

“I believe it was my turn,” she mumbles into my chest, but I know she is teasing. I look forward to the playful sides of each other that we are starting to enjoy. “Truth.”

“Who was the third kiss?”

With her chin against my chest, she looks up at me through heavy lids are dark lashes. She is sleepy, but she is alert enough to think her answer may upset me. I try not to let the worry show on my face. I make a vow then and there not to become angry with her, no matter whose name spills from her lips.

But when she says his name, I have to do a double-take.

“C-come again?” I sputter. So very unlike me.

“Balekin,” she repeats. To her credit, she holds her own in an intense gaze we share while I work through her revelation. “When I pretended to be glamoured by him, in the Undersea and Hollow’s Hall. I got the impression it was a sick, twisted revenge sort-of-thing after he learned you and I had kissed, Every time he saw me, he required it. I played the part only so I wouldn’t be caught out, but every time, it was like a filth I could not cleanse myself of.”

 _I am not a killer_ , but in that moment, I am glad that Jude was quicker with a blade. He would have never simply killed her if he had been given the chance and she had served her usefulness to her. The revelation sends a shudder through me that she mistakes for disgust.

She gets up, and I want to tell her I am sorry. Sorry for the misplaced hatred and self-loathing I cast towards her for so many years. Sorry for turning her sister against her in the river. Sorry for allowing Valerian’s hunger to grow into something that nearly killed her. Sorry for ever laughing at her expense, for watching Locke twist and manipulate her against her sister. Sorry for my brothers, who used her and toyed with her for their own gains. I want to tell her all of this, but I am too much of a coward.

Instead, I watch her wrap her robe around her figure, covering herself from me. She walks towards the door of my bedroom and pauses for a moment. I wait with baited breath for her to say something, anything, so we can be over this moment and onto the next one—preferably one with her warmth blanketing me again. But whatever held her there releases her just as quickly. She shakes the troubling thought from her head and walks out, presumably back to her quarters for the night. 

In a few days’ time, things will go back to normal with us. The tension will build again, we will revel in it, and she or I will say something that knocks us back down to this place. Maybe next time, I can catch it soon enough to ward it off.

Or maybe I like this game most of all.


	4. Happy Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up on the fluff bus, readers, and enjoy the ride, because the next installment on Friday is going to be A-N-G-S-T

Tatterfell and I have an impeccably solid routine. She knocks on the door at the same time every day, calls my name once, knocks a second time, issues a warning that she is coming in no matter what state I am in, then dutifully follows through on her threat. She cares not for Cardan’s presence or his usual state of undress. For the most part, I try to keep some modesty about me with a robe never more than an arm's reach. While not my mother, she is about as maternal as I have ever gotten in Faerie, and though it is obvious Cardan and I are intimate, I don’t need to parade it in front of her.

This day, however, her rapping at the door is not what wakes me. She does not knock a all, because it is much too early. No, the intruder on my sleep is Cardan, hovering over me and peppering kisses across my face. They feel like butterfly wings tickling my skin, but then his firm tongue licks the seam of my mouth, and the innocent visual disappears quickly. I open my heavy eyelids and immediately confirm my initial thought. It is much too early. We turned in a couple hours before we usually do, with Cardan claiming exhaustion from the day. He managed to convince me out of my office through a series of similar kisses and strokes of his fingers that he is currently bestowing on me. Not that I don’t relish the pleasure now, but why is he awake? I am just about to ask him when he murmurs something in my ear that has be pulling back in shock.

“How did you know?”

Birthdays are not celebrated in Faerie. Immortals have no need for celebrations when the anticipated lifespan is never-ending, I bitterly remind myself.

“Vivienne. She sent a letter through your guards the last time you visited her.” Cardan kisses and nips along my jaw, nuzzling into the side of my neck and humming his lips over my pulse point. The reminder of my mortality is forgotten for the moment. I wrap my leg over his waist; his tail curls around my thigh and clenches it, mirroring the way my own body is clenching in the absence of him.

Wait, I’m getting distracted. That visit to Vivi was over two months ago, and he remembered. Impressive. “Exchanging love notes with my sister, are you?”

He throws his head back laughing. What a gorgeous sight.

“I’m not her type.”

“Because you’re a Folk?”

He shakes his head. “No, that never stopped her before. She is not interested in men.”

“Oh,” I purse my lips and lift my brow curiously, teasingly. “So then why aren’t you her type?”

His jaw drops in mock despair. “Why, Jude Duarte, you cheeky little… _You,_ most of all, know the man in me.” He grinds his hips between my thighs to emphasize his point.

“Oh, I think all of Faerie knows that,” I deadpan.

I am rewarded with another laugh and incredulous shake of his head. He kisses me deeply, lingering and savoring the moment when all is well and easy between us. No responsibilities of a kingdom to sap our energy and congeniality; no threat of war or siege looming over our heads with every messenger bringing more bad news or murmurs from other Courts dissatisfied with one thing or another. No heavy crowns that weigh down our youth. In here, we aren’t beholden to the heavy burden of a royal marriage that we are much too young to bear. In bed, we are just two lovers wrapped in each other and forgetting the world around us exists. As it should be.

“She said Madoc used to celebrate your birthdays?” He rolls off me and take me with him until I am on my side facing him. I debate revealing stories about my childhood, at war with myself over the privacy and secrets I keep for protection. Maybe just for today, I can try honesty and openness.

I nod, allowing one of the more pleasant memories of my life in Faerie and with Madoc to betray the stubborn resolve I have to defeat him at this game we have been playing for nearly a full year. “When he first brought us to Faerie, it was one of the traditions from the mortal realm he upheld. We even celebrated Oak’s birthday each year. He would have a cake made for Taryn and me individually. Taryn’s was usually sickly-sweet with jam. Mine was always honey and lemon. He bought us presents, had the servants decorate our bedrooms while we were sleeping. It was one of the few times that loving Madoc was easy, where it all felt so normal. Maybe he just didn’t want us to think about our parents who brought us into the world on this day, who were not there to celebrate it with us. 

I sense Cardan isn’t sure what to say, perhaps because I have uncharacteristically revealed too much. He traces his fingertips along my cheekbone and pushes my hair behind my ear. My cheeks tint with a blush creeping up my neck, uncomfortable with the exposure of a part of my authentic self, and he leans forward to brush his nose against mine. The embarrassment dissipates instantaneously. 

“How would you like to get out of here for the day?” 

I lay my arm over his waist and pull him to me. “Or we could stay in bed all day. I know how we could keep occupied.”

“Tempting as that is, my sweet, and it _is_ tempting, I had a bit of a surprise planned for you today. Hence why we are awake at 3:00. But it will require you to get up and get dressed. In your human clothes.”

Everything in me freezes. My nerves start firing as my skin prickles everywhere. “We’re going to the mortal realm?”

“We are,” he confirms.

“Together? You’re not going to drop me off and leave me there, are you?” My tone is teasing, but as the words tumble out of my mouth, I realize the undertone a beat too late. Suddenly my excitement becomes a flash of anxiety that he quickly calms, pulling me on top of him and grabbing my face in his hands. 

“Never again,” he whispers seriously, sincerely, earnestly, and I believe him. Whether that makes me the biggest fool in the long run, I do not know.

I feel the tension leave my body, body humming with excitement again. “But you and I are going there together?”

“I will tell you, only because I know you will likely object going anywhere deemed a secret. We are going to meet your sister and brother for breakfast, well—dinner for them, I suppose, and then you and I are going on a date alone, to the movies.” 

 _A date_. I have never been on a proper date. I fell in love with the movie theater when I was exiled; it’s something I would do every day to pass the time and reacquaint myself with human culture. I loved how for two hours and some-odd minutes, someone's problems were bigger than my own, even if they weren't real. When I visit Vivi now, I always catch a film, then come back and gush to Cardan about it. How doesn’t quite understand the concept since nothing like it exists in Faearie, but he listens intently anyway. And _wow_. Cardan, taking me out in the mortal realm, like a mortal couple, doing mortal things… I become overwhelmed with excitement and gratitude that he thought of all of this. He has always made a show of despising mortals, and yet, unknowingly—or maybe he does know, he has gifted me a day that is so perfect for me, and us.

“You know you cannot wear a doublet or chiffony shirt into the mortal realm, don’t you?”

He smirks, climbing out from under me and walking towards his wardrobe which is housed in an entirely separate room. “You have a hard-enough time keeping your eyes off me as it is, Queen. But alas, I am prepared. Make haste and get dressed. Tatterfell is waiting for you in your parlor.”

Tatterfell is indeed waiting for me with a pot of tea and nimble fingers ready to make sense of my hair.

I start to greet her, but as I round the corner into my bathroom I am blown away by the sight and smell of luxurious bouquet. The floral arrangement is massive and steals my breath away, only to replace it with an intoxicating scent I’ve never experienced before. I find that curious, since Faerie is ripe with florals and greenery; there is not much I have not come across. I am mesmerized by its beauty. Tatterfell is almost entirely hidden by it, and even she passes a smile over to me.

“Happy birthday, child,” she tells me kindly. She has been with me since I came to Madoc’s estate, so she is well-versed in the foreign celebration of my birthday. “Come, I want to give a good wash to your hair and arrange it beautifully for you.”

In the bath, she has lathered a thick cream that smells divine throughout my tresses, combing through it with her fingers before dunking my head in the faucet to rinse it out. It leaves my hair soft and silky, and she wraps it in a cloth that she claims will dry my hair with impossible speed. Then she scrubs me with honeycomb and sugar until I am smooth and polished. I take care of my own shaving without her help, but not without her fussing over me to hurry so she has enough time to work on her braids. She makes a full crown out of half my hair, leaving the rest to curl softly down my back. It is beautiful and elaborate, but not so terribly out-of-place for the mortal realm. She threads a few flowers from the bouquet into the side and proclaims it her best work yet. She pulls a small jar from my vanity, a tinted lip balm, and taps my lips with it to stain them in its berry color.

“And finally, my dear girl, your present.” Ever since Tatterfell was “gifted” to me by Madoc, she has been warmer, friendlier, and dare I say, even loving. I removed her from servitude, insisting that if she were to stay with me in the palace, it would be paid since her debt to Madoc was absolved. She would have her own quarters that were to be fully furnished and comfortable. I always thought her loyalty to Madoc would trump whatever she was to me, but we have grown fond of one another, and I know she looks after me as she has my whole life here.

“You didn’t have to,” I whisper, uncomfortable by the attention. She just makes a noise and thrusts a small box is my hand anyway. When I open it, it is a cluster of rowan berries hanging from a delicate gold necklace. They appear similar to the ones she used to string for me, but they have an odd glimmer to them that rowan berries do not usually have.

“They are enchanted,” she whispers. “Lick them, and you will always taste salt. They will keep curses and charms from entrapping you, as well as protecting you from glamours. Once you put it on, only you can take it off. Those who wish to take it from you will regret to find out why.” I am speechless. While I can no longer be glamoured, her gift thinks of almost everything else I am vulnerable to. I am floored by the magic and by her thoughtfulness. She has kept me as safe as she could be while being mortal here, and she continues to do so even as I am Queen. My eyes tear with gratitude, and she rubs my shoulder as a means of reciprocation.

“No tears. You will make your eyes red and puffy, which is not becoming of a wife or a Queen. Off you go with the King today. You are very lucky that he should take a day from his busy schedule to spend with you. Very, very lucky. What a great honor it is that he chose you."

And there is the Tatterfell I know.

I am so glad I expanded my wardrobe on my last visit with Vivi. In addition to lingerie, where I blushed furiously when Vivi teased me about it, I picked up a number of cute and comfy outfits to wear in the privacy of my quarters. Today, I choose a pair of brand-new skinny jeans and a fitted white t-shirt. I throw on another fitted piece Cardan hasn’t seen on me—a black leather jacket that narrows at my waist to keep my curves accentuated in a flattering way. Vivi encouraged me to find clothes that highlight my figure and the celebrate its difference from the slight, petite Fey.

“ _You’re a mortal and you’re their Queen. There is no point in pretending you are one of them. So show them that you’re not. And drive Cardan wild with the visual as well,”_ she giggled.

Once dressed and put together with black booties, I step out and nearly faint at the sight of Cardan. Black pants, a dark green button-down with the sleeves rolled ¾-length. He looks so… _human_. I didn’t think he could get better looking, but now that I’ve seen what he can do in mortal wear, I don’t want to see him in anything different.

Honestly, I could very well be drooling, I don’t know. Time is suspended while we drink each other in, and by the look in his eyes, I know he is feeling a similar way.

“You look incredible, Jude,” he breathes against my mouth. It brings goosebumps to the nape of my neck. “I am almost willing to take you up on your change of plans and keep you in bed with me all day.”

The whimper I make is pathetic, but I cannot help it. Somewhere deep in my brain, the sensible part of me is chiding me for embarrassing myself and begging me to change topics before I actually, physically melt into the floor. 

“The floral arrangement you left for me is stunning. I’ve never seen or smelled anything as beautiful,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

His smile is both proud and shy. It crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I call it the Jude flower. I started growing it when I sent you away,” I don’t miss how he doesn’t say ‘exile’—he never does, “and it kept me sane until you returned. I’ve been perfecting it until it smelled the way I always remembered you.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I duck my head to conceal my overheated face.

“Shall we?” With an elbow bent towards me, I take it and let him lead the way.

“You know, making out in the movie theater is a very mortal thing to do. It’s not exactly encouraged, but as long as we keep it discreet enough so we don’t get caught, we may be able to finish what you started this morning.” 

Without seeing it, I know his eyebrow is quirked in intrigue. “Discreet, you say? Well, I’m up for a challenge if you are, birthday girl.”


	5. Bellicose

The rapping on my door is not unexpected, but it is certainly not welcome either. I know precisely who it is at this hour, and I know the hour without looking at the clock because my eyelids feel like heavy doors that yearn to slam shut. My body is dead-weighted in sleep, slowly recovering from the numbing tingles of being woken too soon. But as I said, this is not unexpected. 

The rapping Is sharper, as if the person on the other side thinks I am ignoring him.

“I’m up! I’m up! For fuck’s sake,” I grumble. I wrap my robe carefully around myself, because even the servants and guards directly serving the High King and Queen tend to let their eyes wander when opportunity presents itself. 

On the other side of the door is one of Cardan’s personal guards. I let the doorframe support my weight as I wearily lift my eyes to meet his. Distant and impassive. It’s a familiar expression for a familiar visit.

“Where is he now?”

“He is with the Master of Revels, Your Highness.” He does not even flinch when he uses my newfound moniker. Granted, he has used it at least twice every week in the last thirteen weeks since Cardan proclaimed me Queen in front of Orlagh, unsuccessfully tried exiling me from Faerie, and returned begrudgingly together with me to the palace. Draxon is this guard’s name, and he has been particularly kinder to me than most. Or perhaps he just pities me and these nightly runs. 

“`Course he is,” I grumble. “Well, Drax, let us go fetch him.”

When we arrive to Locke’s estate, I can practically smell the debauchery. Musky hedonism, cloying pillows of pink-grey clouds that seep into the air from whatever they are smoking, the tart cherry wine and the bitter wheat of ale spilled all over the maze. It is a labyrinth I know very well by now. I cut right through to the center without much regard for the magic that yields easily. It does not interfere with me, and I do not burn it to the ground. That is our unspoken agreement.

The scene at the center of the maze is embarrassing and, I cannot stress this enough, so painfully familiar. This has been Cardan’s go-to coping mechanism since I foiled his spiteful endeavor to punish me for killing Balekin. Not that he ever bothered to listen to _why_ I did it. Not that he gave a shit of what Balekin did to me in the Undersea. Not that he grasped the reality that Balekin would have gleefully put Cardan’s head on a stake and paraded it around as a scepter if he had the opportunity to take the throne back. During the day, Cardan Greenbriar is a picture-perfect King, ringing with authority, even diplomatically working with the conniving Nicasia in order to keep up the pretense of peace while Orlagh regroups and finds another clever attack. Madoc is pissed about my throne, but we currently share a common goal of defeating the Queen of the Undersea, so he has not made any move to remove the crown from my head and take my scalp along with it. We know she is plotting something; the game is in the waiting. Her recent attacks around Faerie have kept Madoc occupied, and I have proven myself a master spy with my reconnaissance work. Cardan never so much as acknowledged that I helped thwart two attacks these last few weeks.

On a bed of pillows and flowers, Cardan rolls over and under Fey in various stages of undress. I ignore my sigh of relief that he himself is partially-clothed. I have no wish to deconstruct those feelings at the moment, or any moment for that matter. His lips are dusted gold, his limbs flail without grace for once, and his hair is lewdly unkempt—undoubtedly a result of fingers tugging through them all night. I despise them all. I despise myself for caring. 

I don’t even bother saying a word to him. Oh, I want to. I yearn to shout at his recklessness, his idiocy in parading himself openly inebriated in front of strangers, any of whom could be working for Madoc or Orlagh and have him kidnapped or killed. I want to yell at him for dragging me out of bed when I have to be awake for a Council meeting in three hours. I do none of those, because I know from experience that it gets me nowhere but into a deeper state of resentment that is slowly eating me alive. Instead, I simply march over, take his hand to yank him up, and silently pull him towards his awaiting knights, ready to immediately take him back to the safety and security of the palace. They despise this waste of time and resources as much as I do. Whereas before, his consorts might tell me off and insult my presence cruelly, they now know the title I hold and what I am capable of with that entitlement, so they wisely keep their vitriol to themselves. That does not stop them from appealing to Cardan through illicit whispers and outright begging in a kind of tintinnabulation that grates my ears.

Cardan jerks out of my hand, but he is too drunk to pull away from me successfully. No matter; my resolve is as firm as my bruising grip on his upper arm. I feel the sinewy muscles of his bicep contract under my fingers, letting me know he is stronger than he lets on. Too bad for him, he is piss drunk and barely coherent.

I shove him into the awaiting carriage and consider taking a horse to ride back alone. But the residual terror of my kidnapping to the Undersea still haunts me, and I secretly no longer feel safe on my own outside of the palace. I wonder if anyone has noticed that I rarely leave it except on these runs. Another reason why I hate Cardan in this moment. He threatens my own safety by not giving a damn about his. Begrudgingly, I seat myself across from him. His head lolls on the cushion behind it; one large bump, and his head will surely smack into the wall. Good. Maybe the impact will knock some sense into him.

We ride mostly in silence. My eyes threaten to close several times, but I force myself to fight through the fatigue. We are only a few minutes from the castle when Cardan has somehow sobered up enough to go on a menacing tirade that now I regret not sleeping through. 

“Do you smell them on me? That gorgeous scent I cannot escape, cannot get my fill of. It is paradise compared to your wretched stench. And their taste? It lingers on my tongue. The one I spent most of my time with tonight, she is so sweet. She tastes of ambrosia. It is heady enough to erase all memories of you. How I long to escape you.”

This is also not new. I do not move a muscle in my face. Not one tell, no matter how badly I am urged to bite my tongue to stop it from lashing back. He will find new lowest of lows, hoping to break me. 

“Do you know what they call you? Queen of Nothing. Queen of Clay. Queen of Dirt. I laugh with them. They so freely offer themselves to me, promising they are better, and you know what, Jude?” He leans in to whisper. I do not spare him a single glance. 

“They are better.”

The carriage comes to a stop not soon enough. For the first time since we got in here, I meet his glazed-over stare and usher for him to go ahead. He makes his way to the door, but not without tripping over the toe of my boot I have intentionally stuck in between his feet. He tumbles down the carriage’s steps and onto the ground. Ironically, he is face-down in the dirt.

“Leave him!” I snap to the servants who rush towards him. They hesitate for a moment, but my authority is strong and unyielding.

I step out and get down on my haunches beside his head. He is just pulling his face up to meet mine smiling down at him. I see the fall has helped to sober him up a little, but not by much. 

“The very dirt you mock me for is the same that has cushioned your fall and saved your neck. Surely you see the symbolism here, do you not?” I lean forward so that my words my only be heard between him and I. “Laugh with them all you want, my King. It is _my_ bed you still crawl to in the cold light of morning.” 

I manage to stand in one fluid motion. On the outside, I project everything I feel I am not in this very moment. My feet hurry me along to my chambers, grateful for the empty corridors free from tomorrow’s gossipy whispers, until I am safely ensconced in my apartment. I shut and lock the door behind me just in time for the air to rush out of my lungs in a strangled sob. Quickly I shove my fist against my mouth, stifling it, snuffing out the whimper of agony at the animosity he is so adept at spitting. I have seen Cardan cruel. I have witnessed his viciousness most of my life. And yet… I allow the rivulets to soak the collar of my tunic. Soon it will become stained and stiff with salty tears and dried snot from a particularly ugly cry. 

There are nights when I wonder if I would trade Cardan’s drunken brutality for Orlagh’s imprisonment. That I would elect to suffer the starvation and torture says loads about my current situation, but then what’s trading one suffocating cage for another? At least in the Undersea, I could pretend Cardan’s soft kisses meant more than they ever will.

I spend the rest of the night barricading myself against the door, crying in frustration, crying in exhaustion, crying at my own inability to let go. I should have granted us both the exile. I ought to have given myself the escape and reprieve from this terrible realm when Cardan offered it. At the time, it seemed like the most appalling betrayal. Worse than anything my twin sister has ever done toward me. The imbecile didn’t realize “the crown” on which he placed his caveat for my pardon was the very same crown he metaphorically placed on my head the evening before. When he could not deny me in front of the audience we had gathered, I turned on my horse and trotted back to the palace. The biggest “fuck you” I could muster in my shock. 

Ever since then, I have been called upon at all hours of the day to retrieve his drunken form from various parts of the palace or scattered around Elfhame and return him home safely. If he could perish from it, I am sure he would have drunk himself to death by now. We have been in the nastiest of arguments in his baleful state, and for my own sanity, I had to stop arguing and try to ignore it. Become slick as stone on the surface so the words would slip off of me. I needed that, because not long after the drunken babysitting became our fucked-up routine, Cardan would pull me into his bed after I discarded him in it for the night. Occasionally, he would appear at my door, still inebriated but less hostile, and he would give me a daring look that sent shivers down my spine. No matter how hard I scrub, how many baths I soak in, I cannot rid myself of the touch of his tongue on my skin or the sound of my name on his lips. They stick where the terrible words should.

The next day, I am dragging throughout meetings with the Council, with Madoc, with representatives from Courts who demand more of this and less of that. The grandest initiative has been to rid Faerie of human servants who work themselves to the bone. The movement has received more support than I initially anticipated, particularly thanks to Roiben and his Court, but the opposition has been unrelenting and combative. I could use Cardan’s support on this, but I dare not ask, and besides, we do not speak when he is sober. Any and all correspondence is to-the-point and travels through messengers.

My meeting with the Roach and the rest of the Court of Shadows is long and redundant. No news on Orlagh, except that she is planning something, but not a single one of our spies can find credible sources to determine what that something is. I leave the remodeled lair of the Court feeling agitated and tired. Though it is only 5, I am in desperate need of a lie down to clear my head and get rid of his impending headache. That is another thing Fey are fortunate enough to not experience.

I am heading back to my chambers when I hear an annoying giggle that I know too well. I frantically look to my sides in hopes of an escape, but the sound is drawing nearer, so I fix my face into one of indifference, wishing I could have pinched my cheeks for some additional color. I expect to see Nicasia, of course; I could identify that wispy tittering from years of hearing it accompanied to my bullying. I do not expect to see Cardan, all hands and lips on her, smirks against her jaw and love bites along her neck.

Oh no. No, no, no. I could give a damn who Cardan dallies with—I mean, I _do_ care, but it isn’t as though I expect him to remain monogamous to a marriage we do not acknowledge—however, Nicasia is too great of a risk. He must have known this for he put her on the other end of the palace when he stupidly named her ambassador. I have to get him away from her. What if he was loose-lipped and gives her information about the Court of Shadows? What if he tells her about Oak? Or if he tells her about my geas? Fuck!

Uncharacteristic of me, I panic. I charge between them and grab his hand along the way, pulling him with me. He protests, but he’s drunk and stumbling to keep up and keep upright. I am practically dragging him through the halls. When we reach my apartments, I force my elbow against his throat to effectively pin him against the wall. I can see he is confused and irritated while I fish for my key. Smartly, he says nothing to provoke me. I am in such a heightened state that I worry I may inadvertently crush his larynx and render him literally speechless as a result of my outburst.

Finally the door gives in and I shove him inside. Now what? I got him away for her, and she didn’t seem to follow, but I failed to plan beyond this point. It is not as though I can hold him hostage in here.

His glassy-eyed stare is more alert now, like he is piecing together the puzzle of these last few blurry minutes. I can tell he is coming to his senses, for his emotionless face turns into an amused sneer.

“I do not believe I have ever seen you so green with envy, my Queen.”

“You mistake my unease over your idiocy for the stroking of your ego,” I rebut.

His smirk turns into a grin, but it is not the playful kind. 

“Tell me,” he murmurs while he saunters over to me. “Did you bring me here because there is more than my ego you wish to stroke?” His finger catches a curl that escaped my braid and twists it around his finger. “You need only ask.”

I look his square in the eye and set my jaw. “Why? You would only beg me soon enough anyway after a few more drinks.”

I watch his expression sour right before my eyes and brace myself for what is to come. “Does it sting, dear Jude, to know that I can only tolerate you when I am too drunk to notice or care?”

I shrug and refuse the bait. “I wish it did, for then maybe I would actually feel something.”

The low chuckle makes my blood cold. “You wish to feel something?” Before I can react, his hand is at my neck, fingers splaying into my hair, thumb right under my jaw. I reach for a knife, but he knows the move too well—or knows me too well, I think—because his other hand grabs at my wrist and knocks the knife from my grip when he pins my arm to the wall.

My breathing turns into shallow gasps as he presses harder. Spots start to tickle my vision. Oh god, does he mean to kill me? I thought I knew Cardan’s anger, thought it tasted as strong as the wine he drowns himself in almost nightly, but I never thought he would kill me for it. Make me suffer his indulgences, sure, because he is petty and immature. _I’m no killer_ , he once said, and I took for granted that Cardan has made me a habitual exception to his rules.

“Car—” I start, nearly ready to plead with him to let go, but he is swift to cut me off. His body is pressed against mine, holding my flush against him and the unforgiving wall.

His eyes become glassy again, but not from drink. I blink, hoping it will be gone when I look at him again, but the unshed tears are still there. “It is not that I loved Balekin, but he was the last of the Greenbriar family I had left. An entire lineage destroyed, except for me, a son and brother no one wanted. But he was not yours to kill, Jude.”

There is a clicking that sounds in the back of my throat as I struggle for breath and my voice. I begin to feel lightheaded, my eyes lose focus, then just before the darkness creeps over my vision, he releases me. I inhale oxygen by the lungful until it hurts to breathe again. My hands go to my throat, but even the pressure of my own fingers is too much, too triggering. When I no longer feel on the edge of death, I sink to the floor, propped up against the wall. I look up at Cardan to find him looking down at me aghast, remorseful even. As though he forgot he had such strength. Or maybe he did not recognize his own hatred.

When I can speak, my voice is raspy and hurts coming out, but I know I need to tell him. “You have no idea what he did to me in the Undersea. How he tried to glamour me into kissing him, touching him. How he watched me in nothing but ropes of pearls that covered nothing and made me tell him I only wanted him, only loved him. He starved me. Laughed as I drank the salty seawater as if it was fresh, because he said it was. I longed to rid myself of the charade, but I knew the risk of revealing my immunity would likely mean my head rolling onto shore without my body attached. I would have killed him for this alone, that is true.” I stop to fling the tears off my cheeks and crudely wipe my nose with the back of my hand. Another deep breath; I wince as the sharp air makes contact with my raw windpipe. “But I did not lie when I said he challenged me to duel. He would have killed me, and then he would have killed you without remorse or second thought. Over a _crown_ , Cardan. A crown I put on your head, true enough, but not one you deserved to die for.

I am not sorry for killing him, as I am not sorry for killing Valerian. I did what I must to survive. Just as you did what you must to protect me from extradition and execution.”

His eyebrows shoot up. He is clearly surprised that I understood his motives, let alone confirmed them aloud to tip the scale in his favor with the debt I owe him for thinking ahead so cleverly.

“When I look at you, Jude, I see this weight of a kingdom I do not want. I see my dead brothers and sisters and you crawling through the dirt to scheme how to take advantage of an empty throne. I see a hunger for power born from a deep-seeded resentment of our kind. I see the pain and anguish in your eyes at what you have endured for a world that was not made for you and does not appreciate you. I see all of your lies—the lies I know, the lies I do not, and the lies to come.”

I can only nod in his painful truth. I bask in the power of a crown while he withers in it. I exult in a title I have suffered all my life to even have half of what sovereignty has given me, but Cardan has spent his life proving he is worth the title he was born into to family who never cared to begin with.

“I drink to forget,” he admits quietly. Instead of shame or sheepishness, it is vulnerable honesty that I am not sure how to absorb, except quietly. “I do not mean to be cruel to you—”

“Yes, you do,” I interrupt assuredly.  “It is a place from which you know how to operate with me.”

“You must surely know that I want you, Jude. You will always come find me, and I always come back to you.”

“It is slowly sucking me dry, Cardan. There will be nothing left to come back to.”

For the longest time, we stare at one another in silence. The moment is heavy and ubiquitous. Change is in the air, and who knows how long we can maintain whatever peace we may have stumbled upon. I do not have high hopes. 

And still, when he extends his hand to me, I take it instinctively and decide then and there that I will continue to give him whatever energy I have left until we have found a way to restore each other.


	6. A Different Love Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest: this is a tough fit into a series titled "Mortal Moments", but I did not want to start a new and fourth work just to get this out. This chapter explored a secret affair between Jude and Cardan, if they never hated each other at all. I could have written it for ages, but then it wouldn't really count as a one-shot, would it?
> 
> Light smut warning.

Gentry lessons themselves are not my cup of tea. I am bored by the lectures and know the futility in becoming a scholar as a Greenbriar. My education comes from a vast library in Hollow’s Hall, the only place of refuge in an otherwise abysmal place. What gentry lessons do have is Jude Duarte, a human girl I have been in love with for the better part of two years. She is a force to be reckoned with, and a smartass to boot. She is also currently kicking ass in this astronomy lesson.

“When three starts fall west, it means death is on the horizon. When they fall west, it means change is coming,” she answers the teacher.

“Twit,” Nicasia remarks aloud. I know everyone can hear it, though Jude ignores it. That is not to say she has not been in a few skirmishes with Nicasia and Valerian, but she carefully tows the line so as to not provoke the attention—even though I know what she would say to them if it were not for the heavy price of her uncareful words. 

As Prince of Elfhame, I could alleviate the tension upon her almost instantly. Though the violent Valerian and entitled Nicasia may not like it, they would abide by my command to remain in my royal graces. Locke abides in his own way, always one foot in and the other out, belonging to nothing and loyal to no one. I cannot, however, shower any attention onto Jude that may cause others to suspect our burgeoning relationship. For one, if word got around that the cruel prince was with a mortal, it would spread like wildfire. Folk and human relationships are not unheard of, but exclusivity is. Further, it puts a deadly spotlight on Jude. I would not put it past Balekin to find her and taunt her, to threaten her constantly as a means to torture me. Valerian and Nicasia would also become unbearable towards. I shudder to think how Valerian would harm her for the sake of stroking his own ego.

As it is, I do what I can to minimize their interactions with her by pretending she is nothing to me and ignoring her. I steer the circle to some other subject of my ire, exhibiting cruelty elsewhere to take the heat off of her. Jude does not like that much either, but I have a reputation I must keep and my own reasons for keeping it. We play a dangerous game of cat and mouse with the others, sneaking away in hidden spots, carefully crafting public exchanges that seem to speak volumes for our revulsion. We have almost perfected it, but I do not allow the disillusion that we can maintain the secrecy forever. Just long enough for my father to pass the crown to Dain, then Jude and I can run off together. Balekin will surely become murderous when he is not chosen, and there is no reason to stick around for that. The not-to-distant future is as sweet as nevermore. 

After lessons, Jude and Taryn walk back towards their pseudo-father’s estate. Usually, Jude will excuse herself once her sister is on the edge of the forest overlooking Madoc’s ground with one reason or another—usually related to her practicing for the Summer Tournament. I understand Madoc forbid her quest for knighthood, which set her off on an aggressive spiral these last few days. Instead of our usual green-gowning within hidden parts of the lush forest or daringly in her own bedroom, she has been using me as her sparring partner. I am of little use to her; swordsmanship has never been my chosen niche. I much prefer books and intellectual strategy, or magic when I cannot have my way, which is rare.  From what Jude has told me, Taryn wishes she would leave it be and go about her life without making waves, but even I scoff at the ludicrous idea of Jude staying still while the Fey continue to taunt her.

I wait for her in our usual spot and notice she has exchanged her usual tunic and tight black pants for a wispy sheath dress. The light fabric billows in the wind around her feet and cinches in at the waist to accentuate her very human curves as she saunters towards me. The deep plunge of neckline is more revealing the Jude ever wears, and I cannot help that my gaze lingers there for an inappropriate few seconds.

“Don’t know if you can swordfight in that,” I tell her teasingly.

“I can swordfight in anything,” she responds, much to my amusement. She may be the only person in my life to hear a genuine peel of laughter from me, and I try to give that to her often because it lights up her entire face beautifully.

“Truer words have never been spoken, darling.” She is only a few steps away from me now, but I cannot wait. I close the distances and reach out for her hips to pull her against me. She is needy and desperate, careless of her noises and her volume. Her dress affords me easy access to her, and she has made it even easier by forgoing undergarments. I meet her heavy-lidded gaze in a silent question, delighted when she bites her lip shyly and her cheeks flush an even deeper crimson.

“I just wanted you too much,” she admits. “I know I’ve been distracted as of late—”

I shake my head to cut her off. She does not owe me an apology for going what she feels she must to gain a place here in Faerie.

I walk her backwards towards a particularly broad tree and lift her by her thighs until her face is level with mine. She instinctively wraps her legs around my waist, locking her ankles on my lower back and using them to push down my trousers. 

The moment is urgent and intense. She is warm and slick, pulsating in the most delicious way. I do all that I can to hold onto it for longer so I may savor that way she feels around me, how her skin glistens with perspiration, how her chest rises and falls almost in time with every mesmerizing bounce. She scratches at my neck and shoulders, fingertips digging into my skin with a kind of pain I relish. It lets me know she has been here, that she is not just a figment of my dreams. With muffled groans into one another’s mouths, absorbing the sounds we make as we reach our peaks, I must fight to keep my knees locked so I do not buckle from under her. Her eyelashes flutter as she catches her breath; I feel her legs trembling around, sending aftershocks in the last of the thrusts before I am finished. I set her feet gently back to the ground and cup her jaw in my hands. I am in ae of her. The depth of my feelings for her becomes more shocking day-by-day, but I refuse to run from it. When it starts to terrify me, I plant kisses all over her face. Soft, gentle pecks on her cheeks and over her eyelids and across her mouth. I press my lips to her temple and let them linger there, where I can feel her pulse drumming against my bottom lip. It is so beautiful that all the other darkness in us and between us fades away. Finally, I kiss the tip of her nose—that never fails to make her giggle, and it always sends me diving into the abyss of my love for her.

“I don’t have much time,” she tells me. “Oriana is serving dinner early tonight. Madoc is meeting with your brother, Prince Dain.” She says it apologetically, probably remembering my distaste for the duplicitous Dain. At least with Balekin, you know what you are getting. Dain is wasp disguised as a honeybee. I have tried warning Jude, but she seems skeptical, likely because of Madoc’s alliance with Dain—even though that does not make much sense to me. Balekin is the blood-thirsty war-mongering one; I would think he would pair better with a High General like Madoc.

“You are still competing in the tournament in two days’ time?”

She rolls her eyes but keeps the smile on her face. She touches my cheek gently. “You keep asking like you expect a different answer each time.”

“Not expect,” I pull closer to me so I can hug her tightly. My next words are muffled against her collarbone. “Just hope.”

“I can win,” she argues.

“I know you can. But at what cost? Drawing the ire of other Folk?”

“They hate me regardless,” she shrugs. “At least I’ll give them a reason to think twice before toying with Taryn and me.”

I finger the string of rowan berries nestled between her breasts. No one knows she keeps this on her except her household, and me, and I never dare ask her to remove it. Not that I would use magic on her anyway. I do not know what to say to her or what she wants to hear. I cannot lie. They do hate her. Some, because they see her as weak and pathetic. Some, because they are envious of the way she draws the male and female gaze. Some, because they do not know why she has been afforded the privilege that living with Madoc has given her.

But if you listen to her life stories, you would hear the anguish at having lost her parents at an age old enough to remember but young enough to destroy her youth. You would see the exhaustion she carries at having to constantly watch her back and safeguard herself. You would feel the way she tenses when she mentions a Madoc, both her father’s murderer and her father. Their complicated relationship always perplexes me. She loves and hates and fear him in equal measure, and I have watched all of those components evolve and develop within her for two years.

When she gets up to head home, I notice her back is raw from the rough tree bark. Her skin is prickled in angry read welts and bleeding scratches that make me sick to my stomach with its familiarity.

“Jude—your back.”

She reaches her hand over her should to touch it, wincing as she does. “Shit, I’ll need to cover that up. Maybe Tatterfell has something for it.”

I say nothing, frozen to the ground with my remorse at having harmed her. I know she knows it was not intentionally. She hadn’t even noticed it until I pointed it out. But the visual is too reminiscent of my own scars.

Jude senses my gaze and immediately clicks the look into place. “Cardan—it was an accident. It’s fine. I’m fine. I hardly feel it.”

I nod. She is a capable liar, I know, but I trust that she is being honest in her indifference to it.

Her eyes change with an inner dialogue she is having with herself. I watch her swallow and her lips twitch with want to ask something. I think I know what. It is a subject we have never broached. The whippings I take from Balekin are a secret we both know I keep for no other reason than shame. Jude, in all things, is a survivor. She fears her father, but she will raise her chin in defiance towards him. Unlike Taryn, she does not go out of her way to stay in anyone’s good graces, least of all to curry favor of her own. She would never tolerate Balekin, not without deadly repercussions. And yet, I have always taken the beatings silently, not because I deserve them, but because I will not yield by giving him the reaction he craves. I am many things, but I will not be a killer.

To ward her from thinking on it any further, I stand up and right my clothing as an excuse to avoid eye contact. With one last kiss for the day, I send her off towards home, promising to steal away early enough when she wakes to accompany her training.

“ _No funny business_ ,” she warns. “ _If you are just coming to distract me, then I will kick your ass back to Hollow’s Hall._ ”

I grin at her words on replay in my head as I take the long way back towards the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ongoing series that I am writing in between my larger work, The Missing Queen. I have a few planned, but I will take a few reader suggestions here and there. Ratings are flexible, depending on the nature of the work. I will preface explicit chapters to warn readers.


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